


Tic Toc

by marlowe78



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Teenage Winchesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 17:08:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marlowe78/pseuds/marlowe78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is tied to a chair.... and the clock is ticking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Tic toc tic toc_

 

The clock on the wall is old and battered and probably hasn’t shown the real time for at least a century. But it keeps on ticking.

 

 _tic toc tic toc tic_

 

This won’t end well, Dean thinks as he moves his hands behind his back. No, not well at all. Slight discomfort is creeping in on him. He’s not gonna call it panic yet. Not even anxiety. Maybe a teeny-tiny bit of nerves?

 

 _toc tic toc tic toc_

 

The cuffs on his wrists clink in the silence of the room. His arms are bent over the back of the chair, fixed to the wood with a rope that binds the cuff-chain against the chair’s back. It’s a pretty solid binding and Dean already tried to unknot the rope. No deal, the knot is somewhere behind his ass. He’s getting a bit sweaty, now.

 

 _tic toc tic toc tic toc tic_

 

Dammit. There must be something here!

Dean’s eyes sweep the dilapidated kitchen where he’s sitting smack in the middle of. It’s mostly bare, some shelves are stocked with old, rusty-looking tins of something that once upon a time might have contained food. Too high up to reach for him, though. The table is lopsided, its surface more or less inclined towards him. One leg is crooked, splinters visible where leg and top should be fused.

Maybe?

 

 _toc tic toc tic toc tic_

 

Dean moves his feet. They too are fixed to the chairs legs, his soles square on the dirty, wavy linoleum. He tries to hop a bit and is surprised when this proves to be successful. A huge grin breaks across his face. He’s going to show ‘em! Nobody keeps Dean Winchester where he doesn’t want to stay!

 

 _toc tic toc tic toc tic toc_

 

It’s more of an awkward, slow-going shuffle than actual hopping. He can kinda bend over, lift himself on his feet and raise the chair from the floor, though not entirely. The front-legs never quite leave the surface. So Dean tries to straighten his back and that movement forces the chair to scratch a bit backwards. It’s not possible to walk. Dean can only move a few half-inches and sit back down, repeat it again and again and again. Calling it ‘slow’ would be exaggeration.

 

 _tic toc tic toc_

 

Finally, fucking finally, he reaches the table. When he dares to look, Dean has to dig deep to bury the embarrassment: the place he left what felt hours ago isn’t even a foot away from where he is now.

But there’s no time for that. The clock is ticking – literally- and they could be back any minute. He has to be out of his binds by then, dammit!

Dean hastily examines the splinters that are sticking out of the wood with his tied hands.

 

 _tic toc tic toc tic toc_

 

Fuck.

They are no use, none at all! Much too small and bendy, they won’t help with getting out of anything. He’d kinda hoped they’d at least be sharp enough to fray the rope that ties the cuffs, but no deal.

Fuck.

 

 _tic toc tic toc tic toc tic toc_

 

Dean glances around the room again. There has to be something, there has to be.

Now that he’s closer to the kitchen-counter, he can see into the half-open lower cupboard. Is there something in it? He isn’t sure, but he doesn’t want to waste time with shuffling over there if something better is somewhere more accessible.

There isn’t though. The kitchen is disappointingly empty except for the old counters, shelves, one chair, one Dean and a crooked table. Oh, and the clock on the wall, of course.

 

 _tic toc tic toc tic tic toc tic_

 

Were there just two tics after the toc? Or is he losing his mind?

 

 _toc tic toc tic toc tic toc_

 

Angry at himself for wasting precious time – they could be here any second now! – Dean begins the shuffle-four-step anew. This time, having figured the right moves out already, it’s going much faster.

He just has to ignore the painful rub of rope against his ankles, where his old socks have slipped down.

He needs new socks.

 

 _tic toc tic toc_

 

Good God, thank you! With his bound hands, Dean can touch the cupboard-door. And when he shuffles slightly to the right… like this! … and then strains his arms… yeah, a bit further, just… there! He can actually open the door.

Problem, though?

He can’t see what’s in it.

Dean takes a deep breath to refrain from swearing like a sailor and allows himself a few precious seconds to think about his options.

 

 _tic toc tic toc tic toc tic toc tic toc tic_

 

Shuffle like crazy, turn around and peer into the board, do the shuffle again and try to get his fingers on whatever is there?

Or just try to find something in the cupboard blindly?

Both have merits. But he kinda thinks that he already spent too much time thinking about it to turn around, so he strains his arms as far away from the back of the chair as they will go.

Not really that far, actually. Dean hops a bit closer so the chair is nearly against the appliance.

It’s no use. He can’t reach the shelves, his shoulders always collide with the top of the counter and the rope is too tight to get his arms into the cupboard. Fuck, the angles are all wrong!

 

 _toc tic toc tic_

 

This time, Dean cusses up a storm. It’s not working, it’s no use! He can’t get out and time is ticking away – they’ll be here soon, they’ll come!

He stills, suddenly. Was there a noise outside?

 

 _toc tic toc tic toc tic toc tic_

 

No.

But he’s gonna rip the freaking clock from the wall the second he’s out of here, that’s for sure!

Angry and disappointed and a little bit disillusioned, Dean sinks back against the chair.

 _creak_

Huh?

He does it again.

 _creakcrssscrac_

Bloody hell… With renewed vigor, he slams himself against the wood and yes, it moves. Fuck, yeah! Dean wants to yell victory, but manages to stop himself. No use calling anyone’s attention, right? Not more than he already did, with the cussing and the shuffle-screak-scrap he did earlier.

The shuffle-screak-scrap, annoying and painful as it was, did weaken the formerly sturdy chair and now that he’s realized that, he moves around and wriggles and writhes and leans hard against the chair’s back to get free. Dean plain ignores the slippery feel on his ankles and wrists – getting free is the prime directive here, anything else can be fixed.

With a loud _CRACK_ , the wood gives up resistance and Dean falls on his ass, rather sudden and a bit painfully.

But who’s gonna complain, he’s free!

 

 _toc tic toc tic toc tic toc_

 

Well. More free at least. His arms are still tied and even though his legs aren’t immobilized, they’re still connected to the two chair-legs. But at least he can move them now, so he does just that.

With some effort, he is on his knees, once again bent over. Because try as he might, the ropes are still attached to the chair’s back and therefore, the wood is now resting against his own back.

It’s not much different, but he’s allowed more movement this way. Also? He can turn around now and look into the board.

 

 _tic toc tic toc tic_

 _His heart skips a beat._

 _There is a cook-book in there. That alone wouldn’t really make him happy, but in the book are some loose sheets._

 _Attached with a paper-clip._

 _YES!_

 _He can do that. Has already done that more than once. If he can get out of the cuffs, the rest will come easy._

 _Instead of trying to squeeze his arms and the stubborn pieces of the chair into the cupboard, Dean bends down some more and grabs the book with his teeth. He sneezes when the disturbed dust-clouds get into his nose and has to grab the book again. Shuffling backwards, the chair-legs digging painfully into his jeans and the rope biting his ankles, he moves away from the counter to where there is some wriggle-room._

 _  
_toc tic toc tic toc tic_   
_

 

Book on the floor, Dean sits down on his ass, legs stretched out in front of him. It looks like some weird form of splinted breaks.

He turns around – so much easier now – so his back is to the book and the paperclips. With his numbing hands he fumbles blindly for the little metal-thing. Twice, it slips from his sweat-slicked fingers and he has to search for it again.

There.

 

 _toc tic toc tic toc tic_

 

Dean tries to ignore the clock with its merciless ticking, but it’s hard. So hard, knowing that time is running away, sliding through his fingers like the paper-clip.

 

 _toc tic toc tic toc tic toc tic toc_

The clip is straightened, slips into the cuff-lock. Dean wiggles it left, right. It slips out – NO! There it is, just try it again, once more. Come on!

 

 _tic toc tic toc tic toc_

One minute. That’s all he needs. One more minute, maybe two, please!

 

 _tic toc tic toc tic toc tic_

He can hear the car! Hear it on the gravel outside, not quite there yet but soon, so soon. Too soon!

 _toc tic toc tic toc tic toc_

Just… one second, please!

 _tic toc tic toc_

 _click_

Yes!

 _tic toc_

The engine outside idles for a moment, then stops. Dean frantically disentangles himself from the ropes, tries to rip the bindings from his legs away as fast as he can. But only when he removes the chair-legs is there enough space between the ropes to get his legs out.

He can hear the car-doors slam closed; hear the steps outside, eerily in tune with the clock.

 _step toc tic step tic toc step toc_

He hears voices. Laughter. Dean is only a second away from stepping away from the chair’s debris but it’s too late.

 _tic_

The door opens, and there they are.

 _toc_


	2. Chapter 2

“Dean?”

‘Sir’ he wants to say. ‘I’m sorry, I was too slow’ he wants to admit. But nothing comes out and he just hangs his head.

“Dean!” Sammy yells and scrambles past his dad. “You’re bleeding!” He grabs Dean’s wrists in his hands and yanks them in front of him, a bit forceful. Dean winces, but tries to hide it. His gaze is locked on his old man and he can only see disappointment in his eyes.

“Dad, look, he’s bleeding!” Sam holds up his brother’s hands, a furious scowl on his face. Whatever they had been laughing about just minutes before is forgotten and the only thing you can read in the fourteen year old face is anger. “It wasn’t supposed to hurt him!” And reproof.

Dad ignores his younger son, still stares into Dean’s eyes.

“Thought you could do it” he says and there is no accusation in his tone, nothing at all, really. But Dean still hears ‘I thought you were ready.’ Hears ‘Thought you were better ‘n half an hour – that’s plenty, more than anything will grant you if it comes to this’. He hears that because that’s what Dad said when he locked the cuffs.

 _“Half an hour, Dean. Sammy and I will go shopping, won’t take more than half an hour. You can do this”_ he had said and then left. Closed the door clearly expecting to see his eldest free from binds in front of the old, abandoned house when they came back

Not like this, still with rope around his ankles and a chair-leg in his hand. He lets it drop.

Time seems to freeze. The clock is silent.

“Let me see those wrists, son.” John sighs and Dean’s so happy to hear it, he shoves his arms forward like he’d just received a birthday-present.

“Yessir” he answers, because that’s what his Dad expects.

Sam scowls some more. “I’ll get the kit” he grits out and slams the door on his way to the car.

“Don’t look too bad. Some abrasions, nothing serious.”

Of course not. It doesn’t even hurt, not as much as the clear disappointment in his father’s face.

“Comon out, the light’s better there.”

 

~~~SPN~~~SPN~~~

 

“Does it hurt?”

Lights are out, Dad’s snoring on the couch and of course Sammy won’t sleep, won’t leave him alone.

“No”

It doesn’t. Just stings a bit. His ankles are worse because his socks had slipped down while his wrists’d been covered in bandages. Dad’d known he might scrape his skin against the cuffs.

His thighs hurt like a sonofabitch, though, from all the shuffle-screech-scrape. He’ll be sore for a while.

Not that it matters. No teachers to see the wincing, no counselor to call CPS because of the bandaged wrists. No hiding what he’d done over the weekend. No lying, no dodging, no weaving of tall tales.

Just more practice, tomorrow.

And a clock to put back together.

 

~end~


End file.
